


Flexibility

by SparkBeat



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fingering, Fisting, M/M, Oral, Self Service, Sticky, i.e. Ratchet's hands, improbable uses for yoga, improper use of medical tools, self service takes on a whole new meaning with Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet's a little lonely, and decides to see if he can still get up to his old party ambulance tricks. Luckily, Drift walks in when he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vienn_peridot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/gifts).



> This got out of hand. Quickly. No pun intended. (Okay, maybe a little pun intended...)

Ratchet sighed, and settled down on his berth with a datapad in servo, fully intending to spend the rest of his night in comfort after the long cycle he’d had. Whirl had come in with his ‘face’ caved in on one side. Again. He was pretty sure he'd said something salacious to Tailgate and Cyclonus retaliated. Again. Of course the copter wouldn’t say, though he’d certainly complained enough while Ratchet hammered out the dents and reconnected wiring.

 

Then to top the whole cycle off, he’d come back to his habsuite to a note from Drift apologizing for being gone. Rodimus had called a meeting he had no choice but to attend. Of course he would. The cycle that Ratchet was most looking forward to coming home to Drift, and pinning the lithe speedster down and fragging him senseless as a counterpoint to the lousy cycle he’d been having, that _would_ be the day Rodimus ‘urgently needed Drift’s assistance’… He snorted, shaking his helm and dropping the datapad to the floor next to him, processor already helpfully supplying memories of their last frag, and the things the swordsmech had done to his frame.

 

He trailed a servo down his front, biting his lip as heat pooled behind his panel. He didn’t _need_ Drift to get the job done, he thought. He’d _prefer_ Drift was there to take care of the job for him, but he could make do. Sending a manual override to his panels when they tried to open up, he teased at the seams, feeling the heat build. His hips jerked away from the first few touches, the metal there sensitive to the attention being paid to them.

 

Once his hips stopped twitching away, he dug in with more pressure, grinding his palm against the heated metal, digging his fingers into the seams and finally pressing the panel covering his valve open manually, leaving his spike untouched.

 

Parting the lips of his valve with two fingers, he swiped a third through the lubricant already pearling up and spread it over his array. He repeated the motion, finger slipping through the now slick folds, until he was dripping, lubricant pooling under his aft and his vents pulling large drafts of cool air into his rapidly heating frame. Circling the rim of his valve with teasing pressure, he arched up into his own touch with a moan.

 

If Drift were here, he thought, the speedster would have drawn the torturous touches out far past what Ratchet cared for, enjoying the medic’s squirming and moaning and cursing. He saw no need for that tonight, and thrust two fingers in without preamble, enjoying the burn of the rim stretching over his digits, the calipers inside clamping down on the intrusion with a strength that lit the sensors in his servo up. He shouted, intakes stuttering. He’d forgotten how slagging _good_ proper working sensors could feel! His charge was already ramped up ridiculously high, and he paused, venting heavily in an attempt to cool off and ease back off the edge of overload.

 

Twisting his fingers, he nudged at sensors just inside the rim of his valve. Calipers clamped down hard again, much harder than he remembered from before his new servos, and he was already chewing on his lip hard enough to bruise. Switching on the temperature coils in the two fingers and dropping down to a chilling degree resulted in more pleasure that sent his cooling fans skipping and stuttering as his valve tried pulling his fingers in further.

 

His other servo trailed up his chest, plucking at wires and scraping at the glass of his windshield. Drift would have pressed the fingers of his free servo into his mouth, enjoying watching the medic drool around the digits as much as anything. Curious to see how his servo sensors would react, he did the same. Closing his lips around two, he laved his glossa over sensitive metal and traced the little seam between the two digits. Again his processor lit up like fireworks, briefly shorting his optics and plunging him into darkness with only the pleasure overwhelming him for company.

 

He went completely strutless as his vision flickered back online, and he could feel lubricant oozing into the seams of his fingers and the almost lazy cycling of his calipers. Fingers twitching, he stroked at sensitized nodes, sending his charge climbing again.

 

Pulling the fingers out of his mouth, he trailed his servo down his throat, smearing oral fluids over cables and glass. Hips arching up off the berth, he teased a third digit around the relaxed rim of his valve, dipping just inside and pressing down on a node that sent stars skittering across his sensor net.

 

Twisting a particularly tender group of wires, he tugged up on the rim of his valve. Hips rising up off the berth, the stretch a burn of pain/pleasure in his helm, he found just enough left over processing power to think about the good old days.

 

Particularly the tricks he used to be able to pull off in the berth for himself or his partners. Seating the third digit in his valve and curving all three fingers up towards his spike housing, he wondered if he could still do some of the things he used to. He wasn’t nearly as flexible as he was back in medical school, but maybe…

 

A little overeager, he worked a forth digit in alongside the rest before he was really ready, the sting taking the edge off of his rising charge. As an afterthought, he dialed down the sensors in his servo, and suddenly it was a lot easier to focus, and to vent without sending his fans into a screaming fit.

 

His other servo left the overworked cable bundle he’d been tweaking in favor of gliding down his chassis to his exterior node and wasting no time rolling it under his fingers; short, hard circular motions that ramped his charge right back up again and had his valve clenching down tight on his fingers. The grip of the outer ring relaxed enough for him to scissor back and forth, stretching and tugging on the softened but still too tight ring of pliable metals. He spent a few minutes like that with his hips held up off the berth and three, then four fingers buried knuckle deep, teasing at deeper nodes and staring up at the ceiling with an unfocused gaze as liquid heat pooled again in his array.

 

Eyeing the shelf above his helm, he hummed thoughtfully and tapped at sensors in a random pattern, the coils in the tips of his fingers switching between hot and cold and setting the coils to vibrating.

 

“ _Slag!”_ He shuddered through another overload, offlining his optics and pressing down on his node to draw out the shudders wracking his frame. Protoform relaxing down onto the berth in a slump again, he vented heavily and twitched the fingers still lodged in his valve. Little waves of concentrated pleasure had his hips twitching weakly against the berth.

 

After pulling another overload from his valve, the calipers still clenching, but weakly, he managed to find the strength to kick his pedes up over his helm, hooking his heels behind the little lip on the shelf and holding himself up while he folded his thumb in against his palm and slowly, carefully pressed in against the rim of his valve.

 

There was a moment of sharp pressure, where he was sure he was about to do some embarrassing damage that he’d have to explain to First Aid later, and then with a lewd pop and the sound of wet suction, the widest part of his servo was in, and the rim snapped down around his wrist joint, fluttering weakly as it tried to recover from the stretch. He froze for a moment like that, laying mostly on his shoulders, plating trembling from a combination of stress from trying to stay up in that position, an overwhelming feeling of fullness and pressure and pleasure like he’d forgotten could exist without a partner, and a feeling of satisfaction that he still had it.

 

Once he’d gotten his venting back under control, and he no longer felt like he was going to topple over at any given second, he made a fist, curling his fingers one by one oh so slowly into his palm, dragging over swollen nodes as he went. Pulling his fist down towards his chest just slightly, he could feel his rim stretching again, his whole lower half wanting to follow the direction of the pulling. Just beneath his plating, he could see the movement of his servo, a slight bulging of his protoform that shifted when his servo did.

 

A groan escaped his vocalizer as he watched his servo press against his abdomen, and he turned the sensors to his servo back on almost absentmindedly.

 

Immediately he was thrown into a blinding rush of sensations. Heat, wet, tight, shifting. The feedback from his servo sensors was overwhelming. His plating rattled, and his fans seized before shrieking to life and drowning out all other sounds in the room. An overload ripped through him, fluids gushing out of his valve and seeping into seams to drip down his shivering protoform.

 

A second overload followed right on the heels of the first, and he knew he shouted, even if he couldn’t hear it over his fans. This one was the strongest yet, and he felt a pop as one of his circuits tripped off. His plating was rattling so badly by now that the noise was competing with his fans for loudest, and his calipers were cycling down around the irregular shape of his servo with a strength he hadn’t thought they’d had left in them.

 

Right. One last overload, then he should probably get cleaned up. This position wasn’t doing his spinal strut any favors, he thought.

 

It took a couple tries before he could raise his free servo any higher than a few inches before slapping it back down to correct his balance again, but once he was stable, he squeezed his fingers into the small gap between wrist and array, and pressed at his nub again. Small tight circles around the aching, swollen node had an overload pooling low in his hips quickly. Even upside down as he was, his hips still tried twitching up into the stimulation, and the shifting movements put sinfully sweet pressure on his servo sensors, making stars burst over his offlined optics.

 

All it took to push him over the edge was a touch to his ceiling node, a push of his wrist that moved his fist deeper into his valve, pushing out pleating that usually didn’t get stretched nearly that much to expose more sensors that weren’t used to direct stimulation. Once his knuckles tapped his ceiling node, it was over. He shouted before he could silence his vocalizer, fluids running down his arm in little rivulets of glistening pale purple, pooling in his shoulder joint and puddling around his helm.

 

And a second, equally strong overload chased right on the heels of the first, fritzing out optics he’d onlined in shock and surprise. Calipers tensed and tightened around his servo again, the sensors he’d dialed back up to high pressure sensitivity tripping yet another overload. His frame shook and rattled, his legs locking to keep him upright when the strength in his abdomen gave up completely.

 

A little frantic by the time the fourth overload passed, he tried shutting the sensors off again and quickly discovered what circuit had tripped when the command came back as an error message flashing on his HUD.

 

By this point, his spike had released despite the override, and on his next overload, his hips still twitching sporadically, transfluid splattered over his windshield and face.

 

He quickly lost track of the number of overloads, they had all blurred together into one long, drawn out ordeal, as his sensors got increasingly more sensitive as time drug on. His calipers were clenching tightly enough now that trying to pull his servo free only tugged at his valve lining and rim, sending more shivers down his spine and adding to the continuous charge crackling in his frame. Even with the lights dimmed, he could see clearly thanks to the energy arcing through visible joint seams.

 

About the only coherent thought left in his processor was that he _really_ didn’t want to comm First Aid for this.

 

It was while he was trying to unlock his joints enough to free his pedes from the shelf overhang that the door opened. Ratchet didn’t hear the entry chime over the screaming of his fans, focusing solely on getting himself laid flat before he had to call anyone and face the humiliation that would ensue.

 

Drift stood frozen in the door, taking in the sight of the medic, pedes over his helm, knees bent and panel open. Transfluid, coolant, and oral solvents stained his plating and puddled in a rainbow of colors under his helm. His mouth wide open, straining to take in cool air when there was none left in the room, optics dimmed while shudders wracked his frame, Drift found himself striding across the room in four long steps, and crawling up on the berth without a word.

 

What the angle of his thighs had hidden before was now clear to see when Drift pressed up against his back, immediately taking the medic’s substantial weight when he felt the minute tremors of a body exhausted. His already pressurized spike slid against heated plating as he stared transfixed at the sight of plush valve lips stretched and straining around Ratchet’s own wrist. His biolights pulsed in a crazy tempo as the rim of his valve tried to squeeze down on the intrusion in the throes of an overload. Ratchet had tried glaring at him, expression not angry so much as hazy, but as soon as that overload his, his helm slumped back down, unfocused optics staring at the wall behind him as his mouth opened on a near soundless moan filled with static.

 

Drift ignored the small charges of energy that leapt from Ratchet’s joints to kiss his plating, wrapping one arm around the medic’s torso and pressing his palm firmly plating slicked with coolant, pushing down just slightly on the little bulge in his pelvic cradle. The other bot tried to jerk away from the pressure with a hoarse shout, one pede coming free from the shelf to try and kick at his intruder. With zero energy left to do much more than shudder through yet another overload however, his pede missed Drift’s helm and his leg landed harmlessly on the swordsmech’s shoulder, cradled between his neck and his shoulder pauldron.

 

“So…this is what you get up to when I’m gone?” Drift asked conversationally, tracing the taut rim of his valve with a single finger. He imagined Ratchet was making a fist inside his valve, and not necessarily for pleasure anymore. Chances were good, he’d get smacked for this, but Ratchet would let him know if his presence was truly unwelcome. Until then, he was going to enjoy the sight of the medic absolutely wrecked, speared on his own servo and painted in fluids. The bulge under his servo shifted a bit, and he could see Ratchet was trying to pull his servo free when his wrist pulled away a bit, leaving a gap between wrist and rim that was dimly lit by his pulsing lights.

 

Without pause, Drift leaned in and pressed his glossa to the gap, tasting heated transfluid and rising charge as he dipped inside and touched at the swollen nodes he could find.

 

“ _Slag!”_ Ratchet’s frame jerked, other pede tearing free and catching a finial. Drift winced, pulling back and steadying the heavy frame trembling in his grasp.

 

“Easy, Ratch. I’ve got you.” He went back to tracing the stretched rim, ignoring the smarting of his finial in favor of studying his medic. Optics that were unfocused and staring off into a space beyond his left shoulder were filming up with optical fluid now, and his mouth was making soundless shapes, still struggling to take in air as yet another overload hit. Transfluid droplets hit his face, adding to the mess already there, but what little there was, Drift realized suddenly that he’d been stuck like this for a while.

 

“Ratch?”

 

“Plea…please, Drift. Rodion!” The last word came out strong and clear, and spurred Drift into action like nothing else could. Neither one of them would ever talk about that place in the berth, that’s why they’d decided to make it their mutual safe word for those rare occasions that things got out of servo for one or the other of them.

 

He pressed forward into Ratchet, pushing his hips up until they were in relative alignment with his frame again. That released some of the pressure on his valve, and gently, oh-so-carefully he helped ease Ratchet’s servo free. Strands of purplish fluid clung to his fingers as they finally pulled free with an obscene slurp, then snapped and added to the mess on his heated frame.

 

Taking tiny shuffling steps backwards on his knees, he eased Ratchet down slowly until he was flat on the berth and Drift knelt near the edge between quivering legs that still crackled with built up charge. He climbed down, and squeezed one pede at Ratchet’s protest before walking to the small sink that was all that was afforded to the CMO’s private rooms.

 

Bringing back a solvent soak handful of cleaning cloths, he set to work mopping up the spilled fluids. Starting with his face plates, he gently washed every inch of the medic, pressing kisses to the steaming plating as he went. Ratchet moaned, letting his helm loll to the side as soon as Drift had finished with it, optics tracking his movements as he passed his oversensitive array in favor of cleaning the coolant off his legs.

 

“Roll over?” He did so slowly, letting Drift do much of the work to get him to lay on his front. His spinal strut stretched beautifully at the change in position, and he sighed, burying his face in a relatively clean patch of pillow with Drift repeated his motions on his back. Servos followed through after he finished with the cloths, working out kinks in his back plates, freeing pinched lines and plates that had slid over one another and jammed. With each motion of the speedster’s servos, he melted further and further into the mess of his berth, on the edge of sleep despite the still crackling charge.

 

Digging his servos in at the small of his back, he loosened up the last set of plates and was pretty sure he heard a groan from the pillow. Smiling at his back and tracing nonsense glyphs in the plating, he measured the fatigue in his EM field. Charge still overpowered his field, though sleep wasn’t far behind. Nudging at his hip, he helped roll the protesting medic back over onto his back, and scooted back down till he was kneeling on the floor, pulling at Ratchet until he shifted down with his hips at the edge of the berth and his legs hanging over Drift’s shoulders again.

 

“Wha-?” Drift snorted, Ratchet was so out of it. Pressing in till his mouth was hovering just over the red and white valve, still stretched out from who knows how long with a fist inside, thighs limp on either side of his helm, he blew across the heated metal. Ratchet twitched but gave no other response. Drift could see his calipers trying to cycle down, slow, lazy movements that didn’t quicken when he very carefully licked a stripe up between the puffy lips, nosing at the exterior node and looking up the line of his frame.

 

Ratchet was watching him, helm cushioned on the filthy pillow he’d drug with him down the berth. His cheeks were flushed again (or still flushed, he couldn’t be sure), optics locked on Drift between his legs.

 

“This okay?” He asked, sucking one lip into his mouth and running his teeth softly over the tender metalmesh.

 

Ratchet nodded, pedes twitching against his back plates as he released the soft metal in favor of lapping at the fluids still staining his array. He drew out the gentle cleanup for far longer than necessary, soothing heated metals with cool exvents and soft strokes of his glossa. Ratchet moaned weakly when Drift pressed inside, tapping at nodes with the tip of his glossa and holding his thumb down over his exterior node. Grateful for the lack of pressure on overworked equipment, he relaxed into the sensations of an overload creeping up on him instead of running him over and dragging him along for the ride.

 

Drift’s free servo slid down his own plating to wrap around his leaking spike. Taking care to keep his servo and mouth on Ratchet gentle, the pace he set for his own spike was much faster, and heavier handed.

 

By this point, Ratchet had thrown one servo over his face, biting down on the inside of his wrist. His other servo, the over sensitized one, was buried in the thermal blanket covering the berth, twisting the material up around his fingers and tugging on it to ground himself. Seeing this, Drift leaned back, admiring the strand of purple that clung stubbornly to his chin to connect him back to Ratchet.

 

“Please don’t cover you face? I love watching you come undone, Ratch.” His own overload rushing up to meet him, as soon as Ratchet moved his arm and made optic contact with him, he leaned in and flicked the swollen glowing nub with his glossa.

 

Ratchet’s optics whited out, back arching up off the berth and a low moan vibrating down through the berth and Drift. He bit back his own cry as his spike painted the underside of the berth and his knees. Slumping forward, he leaned his helm against one of the medic’s thighs and sighed.

 

For long moments there were no words spoken, just the ticking of cooling metal and the whine of cooling fans. When Drift finally pushed himself to his pedes, he turned to the little storage locker where he knew Ratchet kept spare thermals.

 

Grabbing a couple, he turned back to the medic and smiled at the sight of him half asleep with his legs still dangling off the edge of the berth and his valve and spike on full display. His spike had receded into its housing, his valve still stretched a bit. His valve lips, normally already plump and tempting, white with red biolights, were absolutely swollen now, and flushed dark red to match the weakly pulsing biolights.

 

He was already debating whether to ask Ratchet if he had anything for that, or if he should comm First Aid and let Ratchet sleep when the medic onlined one optic and made grabby motions with his servos.

 

“Get over here kid.”

 

He helped the protesting bot to wobbly pedes, and was quick to rip off the old tarp and pillow, spread a new one, and bundle another up to serve as a makeshift helm rest. As soon as the berth was (relatively) clean, Ratchet dropped back down onto it with a groan.

 

“Do you have something to help with the bruising down here, Ratch?”

 

“I’ll worry about it in the morning. Right now I want to sleep, so get your aft up here, damnit.” Ratchet grumbled, leaning out to grab one of Drift’s wrists and tug at him until he complied.

 

“You’ll regret that decision come morning shift.” Drift warned, pulling a second tarp up over both their frames and tucking it in around Ratchet’s front, spooning along his back and nuzzling at his neck.

 

“Aware of that, don’t you think? Rather be right here.”

 

“Love you, Ratch.”

 

“You too, kid.”

 

“…sooooo you think you can show me how to do that? I’m sure I’m flexible enough.” A loud crash and rattle of plates accompanied Drift’s fall from the berth at Ratchet’s servos, and he snorted, laughter following close behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft Dom meme response to an anon who asked "Hello! For the soft dom meme, could you maybe do 'why don't you move your hips for me, hm?' With Ratchet and Drift pleeeeease? :)" 
> 
> That combined with the [wonderful](http://ceryskitty.tumblr.com/post/122199575188/huge-but-underappreciated-kink-mechs-being-bent) [posts](http://ceryskitty.tumblr.com/post/122200081088/larbestaaargh-replied-to-your-post-huge-but) [that](http://ceryskitty.tumblr.com/post/122200368863/imagine-drift-having-to-touch-his-toes-while) [Ceryskitty](http://ceryskitty.tumblr.com/) posted yesterday resulted in this ridiculousness.
> 
> Ratchet finds an interesting new use for yoga when he walks in on Drift with his pedes over his helm.

“Why don’t you move your hips for me, hmm?”

 

Drift nearly lost his balance at the unexpected voice in the doorway of his quarters. Balanced on his shoulders on a mat he’d carried with him for so long he should probably think about getting a new one, with his legs over his helm and his toe caps nearly touching the floor, arms spread behind him for support, it was not a good position to be startled in.

 

But it was Ratchet, of course. There were few people with the code for his door, and fewer still that could override the code in emergencies. And Ultra Magnus would have been quoting regulations as soon as he walked in, while Rodimus probably would have dropped down next to him and demanded an explanation for why he was shut away in his room. He could hear Ratchet coming closer, footsteps heavy and grounded on the decking.

 

Fingers traced the backs of his thighs, and his tensors trembled from the strain he was putting on them.

 

“You know… I knew a bot, back in med school. He could suck his own spike. Said flexibility was the key.” Those fingers were tracing his panel now, tapping out nonsense patterns on the metal.

 

“Did you?” Drift congratulated himself on keeping his voice steady despite the quickly growing heat in his pelvic array.

 

Ratchet hummed, palming the cover now and pressing ever so slightly downward. Drift felt his abdominal plating compress further at the pressure, and his knees were now hovering just above his finials.

 

“Ratch?”

 

“Up to you Drift. You know what to say if you want to stop, yea?”

 

Drift nodded, closing his optics and relaxing into the stretch. The pressure released, and he allowed himself to sink into the new depth of the pose without aid while those fingers went back to tracing his panel. A few insistent taps had him opening up, barely biting back a groan as his spike, always eager to perform when it came to the medic, pressurized as soon as it was clear.

 

Pit, but he could almost reach it, the red and white striped shaft bobbing just above his nose. His own array filled his line of sight, he couldn’t see Ratchet, though he could feel the servos tracing patterns on the backs of his thighs. He’d never realized how sensitive they could be! With the plating stressed and the tensors stretched taught, every soft touch left a line of tingly warmth behind that shot straight to his spike. A drop of transfluid welled up on the tip, hanging there for a moment, and then dropping down to land on his upper lip.

 

He twitched, hips trying and failing to buck up when Ratchet’s mouth sealed over his valve, glossa probing between the lips to tease at the rim. His fans kicked on, his hips still trying to press up into that delicious teasing pressure. Ratchet knelt at his back, their frames flushed with his thighs hugging Drifts sides and his servos pressed on the backs of his legs. He was effectively trapped, unable to move unless he wanted to put force behind the action and unbalance or hurt the medic.

 

Lucky for them both he was content where he was. Ratchet’s dentae scraped over his external node and he moaned, bringing his servos up to cover his face, palms absorbing the scorching heat gathered in his cheeks.

 

“Don’t cover your face Drift, I want to see you.” Ratchet said, pulling away from his valve and replacing his glossa with two fingers. Drift whimpered, calipers clenching down on the solid intrusion, trying to pull them deeper, towards the more sensitive nodes higher up.

 

“Besides,” He continued, twisting his fingers and pressing his thumb down firmly on the glowing nub just above, “How can we really test your flexibility if you don’t keep your mouth open for me?”

 

Another twist of his fingers, another firm touch to his external node, and then Ratchet’s fingers did something Drift wasn’t expecting. Suddenly, they were ice cold, the pads tracing lines of cold fire through the pleated mesh of his valve, pressing against the springy rings of his calipers and sending shocks of pleasure through the nodes he could touch. The pad of his thumb heated, warmth suffusing his node and battling with the cold for dominance in Drift’s processor.

 

He opened his mouth to shout, the sensations all together too much and not enough at the same time, and Ratchet pushed, just that last little bit, and his mouth was filled with his own spike.

 

A new bloom of fire chased away the cold in his valve, his glossa tracing the strange yet oh so familiar ridges of his own spike. Transfluid puddled on the back of his glossa and slipped down his intake. His optics watered, the stretch along his back and legs intense even after he relaxed. He could trust Ratchet to keep him steady, and let his arms flop back down to rest on the mat while he pressed his glossa into the slit on the tip of his spike.

 

His whole frame was heating up, and he couldn’t tell how much of it was from the stretch and how much was from the fact that he was sucking himself off while Ratchet teased and tormented his valve.

 

The ice in his valve was gone, the coils in Ratchet’s fingers cycling up into a heat setting to thaw sensors gone nearly numb. The coils vibrated with the temperature change, and the vibrations pressing against his nodes as Ratchet stretched him to press in a third finger tipped him over the edge.

 

His abdomen tensed and relaxed, the pressure Ratchet had been putting on his legs pushing him down just that much further at the sudden lack of resistance, his spike hitting the back of his intake. His shout was muffled, lips stretched taught around the shaft while transfluid filled his mouth and ran down his cheeks before he had the processor power to swallow.

 

He spared half a thought to the fact that his fluid tasted so different when it came from the source instead of from Ratchet’s mouth. Then Ratchet was standing, still keeping pressure on his thighs.

 

“You okay, Drift?” Drift just nodded, blissed out, still teasing at his softening spike.

 

Ratchet didn’t give him any warning, rubbing his hip with one servo while he guided his spike down to sink into Drift’s upturned valve with the other.

 

He shouted, pedes kicking uselessly at the floor over his helm as his valve lining stretched around the thick spike rubbing firmly against nodes along the back wall of his valve that were normally only teased. His spike twitched on his glossa, already trying to repressurize at the new sensations.

 

Above him, Ratchet was gasping for air, fans working overtime as he ground his hips down in tight little circles that stretched Drift’s calipers and rubbed over his external node, building another bundle of charge in his tanks.

 

It didn’t take long, charge building higher and higher. Ratchet groaned, frame shaking from the effort to stay in the crouched position, and Drift clenched down around his spike, hollowing his cheeks around his own and pulling a second overload out of himself. Ratchet wasn’t far behind, transfluid filling his valve and running down his abdomen when Ratchet pulled out and dropped to his knees. Without the pressure on his legs to hold him down, his spike slipped from his mouth, transfluid dripping down his face, clinging to his optic shutters and nose as he gasped for air. His vents, having been all but smothered, pulled in cool air with a whine of fans that seemed to echo in the suddenly quiet room.

 

Ratchet’s servos on his back made him twitch, but the medic just shushed him and helped guide his hips back down to the floor. The relief of straightening his spinal strut was indescribable, a third, mini overload all its own. Ratchet laid his helm on his thigh, and for a few moments, all that could be heard were their fans spinning and the pings and ticks of cooling metal.

 

“Roll over.” Ratchet said after a bit, pushing at his hip. Drift complied with a groan, stretching out on the stained mat with his helm pillowed on his crossed arms.

 

He groaned again, a long drawn out noise in the back of his intake, as Ratchet’s servos dug into the plating at the small of his back, smoothing out plating that had refused to completely relax. Plates were realigned, the edges coaxed into releasing their neighbors, and wires were smoothed out between gentle fingers. Drift melted into the mat, burying his optics in his arms and curling his pedes.

 

“Ratch,” He bit back a whimper as a particularly stubborn plate popped free and cool fingers stroked the underside to hide the slight sting. “Ratch, you keep that up and I’m gonna fall asleep…”

 

“Go ahead, kid. I’ve got you.” Drift floated in and out of awareness, the servos on his back coaxing him into a state of peaceful serenity he rarely found outside meditation. He could feel Ratchet rolling him over onto his back when he was done, and then he was gathered into sturdy arms and lifted with a grunt.

 

Ratchet set him down on the berth, and disappeared from sight. Drift whined, servo grasping at thin air where the medic had been.

 

“Right here, Drift. I didn’t go far.” A servo grabbing his, squeezing his palm, then a cool wet cloth on his face. The drying transfluid was carefully scrubbed away, first from his face, then the cloth was trailed down his front, tickling at his abdomen and sending little rivulets of cool cleanser streaking down between plating to tease his heated protoform.

 

He couldn’t help the little twitch of his hips when the cloth wrapped carefully around his depressurized spike, but Ratchet made quick work of cleaning his sensitive array, not lingering longer than was necessary.

 

When he was cleaned to the medic’s satisfaction, the berth creaked, and then a reassuringly heavy frame curled up against his back, one arm draped over his waist. Ratchet pressed a kiss to his neck and rubbed at his hip.

 

“Get some sleep, you contortionist.”

 

“Thanks Ratch…” Drift yawned, wiggling back to press tighter against Ratchet, “You still need to show me how to do your trick some day…”

 

“I like your trick better.” Ratchet laughed, servo splayed over his tank to pull him flush, “Now go to sleep.”


End file.
